


Writer's Block

by Tommykaine



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Gen, POV First Person, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 05:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12905319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tommykaine/pseuds/Tommykaine
Summary: When the sun rises on a clear window, again,ask me about the sound of the rain.





	Writer's Block

**Author's Note:**

> Fill per il Prompt 13 della Scavenger Hunt 2017 - "Blocco dello Scrittore"

 

The clock ticking was

the noise that,

slowly trickling into

my dreams...

 

I rise! I swear! I clench,

my teeth

my fists

my thoughts

my feet

my knuckles, white:

 

they spread

apart

_just like my lids_

 

I close my eyes

 

_/go back to sleep/_

I would, I should,

I could?

no more.

 

 

 

I'd like to take

my brain apart

and just dissect it

_/much like a frog/_

as it croaks, and croaks,

_/or like_

_a crow/_

 

Ah! That reminds me

_/nevermore!/_

the skillful master,

would also struggle

but endless sleep, that was

his fear: physician's stumble

and stuck he would

deep in the ground

_/and never found/_

\- a living corpse'd lay there!

Unbound,

yet still, confined

the lid, unpried,

under the mound:

\- unending Nightmare!

 

 

Yet I would wish!

\- sometimes, nighttimes, -

being swallowed whole,

into the ground

and never found

and not one sound

no ticking clock

shaking my soul

\- no time, no dimes

no cold hard shock:

the deadline missed!

 

Oh how I'd sleep!

_/if I could sleep/_

No nightmares, just

at last, to rest!

At least, I'd wish, just this

request.

 

 

And then it comes,

upon my chest

my brow

my jaw,

the guilt, it grasps

my body whole

it tears apart, it takes control

_/I've lost my voice,_

_I've lost my soul!/_

 

And time, it trickles,

the clock,

it cackles,

my voice

in shackles:

the Muse is fickle.

 

 

You'd think, my voice

if made of sorrow

should thrive in pain,

should strive to follow

the path that's carved

_/maybe tomorrow/_

but lost

and starved

in vain

_/I'm stuck, again/_

my voice is lost

my voice is lost.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Have you ever counted so long on the one thing you've taken for granted it's burned like a candle,

_/you've gone off the handle/_

it's coming apart

_/imagine the scandal/_

it's life blood, it's sparks, it's all that you've known for

so long you've lost count

so long you've

stopped

finding

a

rea

son

to

 

care

for

 

the

 

art.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

I've stared at this page for hours

awake

_/again/_

with a million good reasons to put down the pen

and not a goddamn one to keep on writing

and not a goddamn one to keep on writing

and not a goddamn one to keep on writing the same shit over and over again as if anything would change

if I

just

find

the

_/FUCKING/_

perfect word

for this sentence

 

as if

putting a gold leaf on

a pile of shit

would somehow make it

precious

 

_/a rose is a rose is a rose/_

_/and so is shit/._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

You'd think I'd

just be able to do

the same job I've

always been (dreaming of) doing

 

Would you find it reasonable if

perchance,

an architect would just

not work on your house for, say, a month,

a construction worker would just

not put brick after brick after brick,

out of nowhere,

cause it “didn't feel right”

and just take it all apart again

_/and again, and again, and/_

starting back from scratch,

day

after day,

after day,

_/just how many now?/_

 

and what if

the entire project you've been told

to expect

was nothing like what comes out of their hands

and no matter how hard

they

try

it's just not going where

_it's supposed to?_

 

What then?

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

The clock ticking has

the noise that,

slowly creeping

into

my dreams...

 

I feel like I've written the same sentence over and over again a million times

the same page

the same phrase

the same eyes

 

How many sapphire eyes can you count?

How many bated breaths?

How many whispered murmurs?

 

I've

lost count!

 

of the times

I've been

 

writing and

keeping in or

taking out

 

it's all

just

blurred

 

it's all...

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

The clock ticking has

the same noise that,

my heart makes

as it pounds in my head

 

_/it hurts/_

 

I wish it would go away

I wish I could go away.

 

 

 

Not like I wish for a gruesome fate,

nor

a worrisome disappearance.

 

 

Sometimes it's just

so much effort

only to exist

 

 

I see

nothing

on this page

that doesn't make me want to

rip my entrails apart

and reassemble them.

 

_/Always a taste for the macabre/_

is what she'd say

if she hadn't grown tired to

_/if she hadn't grown tired too/_

deal with

the emptiness.

 

 

I have no prose

and no elegance

_/maybe I never did/_

reading what I've put down

makes me want to

tear these pages apart.

 

Now

they're all empty, too.

 

And so is this.

 

 

* * *

 

I live my life like an unraveling boulder.

 

As it comes undone, it keeps rolling,

even as it grows smaller

even as it loses its shape

and resembles nothing of what it once was

 

gravity is all that keeps dragging me forward,

waiting for the inevitable crash

 

_/as the clock's ticking,_

_as the sound's trickling/_

 

If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, then

ask me how a madman feels.

 

 

I would dream of a past where

I was able to

make sense of

this silence but

silence is a

luxury I

cannot afford.

 

You could cover me in gold, and

_/by any other name/_

that wouldn't change a thing.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

I've learned how to get along

with the incessant white noise in my brain,

as the pen rises on a blank page yet again

do I even know for how long

I've been sitting in the same damn pose,

staring at this sheet

asking myself what even for

has this ever worked out before

not for a million ticks of the clock

not for a million words under lock.

 

 

 

Ask me about the rain,

ask me about the same damn old song

I keep putting on repeat

until I look up to pause

and find it's been silent for God knows how long

I must have memorized the beat,

I suppose,

to the point where it's just background noise all over again.

 

 

When the sun rises on a clear window, again,

ask me about the sound of the rain.

 

 


End file.
